it's in the past we can make this leap
by Red Bess Rackham
Summary: PART 2 — After a mission goes horribly wrong, the Avengers end up separated and scattered in time. Clint joins forces with someone unexpected while Steve meets a kid who's in way over his head. They both try not to completely screw up history. (Part 2 of a 3 part, gen, Avengers epic.)
1. Chapter 1

**A/n:** _Big HUGE thank you's to my usual army who've been helping through this venture from the start (hand holding, betaing, idea bouncing/sorting, and so on), especially Hope, who's balancing insane school life and beta duties. ILY!_

 _ **You do not have to read Part 1 in order to understand Part 2. They are linked, but separate enough you can read them out of order.**_

 _IMPORTANT NOTE: this fic will not have the fast update schedule that last one had, unfortunately, but I will be doing my best to give you reasonable updates. Rest assured, this fic *is* happening, no matter what, and there will absolutely be a third and final part after this. (I don't abandon stories - ask my pals!)_

 _Second: the POV's gonna bounce you around this first chapter, but it'll settle out after this. Trust me, there's reasons. ;) Enjoy, and please let me know your thoughts by taking a sec to leave me some feedback. :)  
_

 _ **Warnings:** This story is rated PG-13 for language, some violence and possible character death. There will be minor/background Clint/Natasha and Steve/Peggy, but this story is primarily Gen Action/Adventure.  
_

 _ **Timeline:** takes place  after Iron Man 3, after Agent Carter season 1, but before Thor: the Dark World. Ignores Avengers: Age of Ultron (sorry Laura Barton). _

* * *

**it's in the past we can make this leap**

* * *

 **[ CLINT ]**

 _"If you call that being nearly killed, then you haven't lived yet. Just stay with me, and you'll get a lot nearer." – The Doctor, Doctor Who_

* * *

Clint didn't like Hector Lazarus from the first minute he had laid eyes on the guy back in Sacramento two years ago. The feeling hadn't changed.

The scientist's eyes looked decidedly crazy, Clint thought, and based on Steve's expression, Cap agreed. Clint kept his bow trained on Lazarus while he claimed to be from the future and said he had come back in time to stop the Avengers from foiling his nefarious plans.

 _Yep,_ thought Clint. _Bat-shit crazy._

The wacky, tricked-out machine Lazarus brought lit up like Christmas tree, and Steve's frowny face got even frownier.

After Thor planted his elbow against Lazarus' skull, sending the scientist to the floor in an unconscious heap, Clint wondered if this was going to be like Sacramento all over again—if the Avengers were about to be completely played by Lazarus, like the guy had played S.H.I.E.L.D. back then. Hell, maybe the machine wasn't even really a bomb.

That was about when the floor shuddered and there was a roar like thunder. When hefty metal walls clattered down and trapped the team, Clint knew they were screwed.

 _One one-thousand._

"What the hell?" Clint muttered, dread trickling down his spine.

 _Two one-thousand._

Lazarus' machine emitted a long, shrill sound followed by ominous whirring.

 _Three one-thousand._

Clint reached for Natasha. Steve made a grab for his shield. A wave of freezing air shoved the team off their feet, Clint shut his eyes against an explosion of white, and he tumbled, enveloped by noise and light.

Then, absolutely nothing.

 _Four one-thousand._

* * *

 **_[ PEGGY ]_ **

* * *

The clock on the far wall wound its way slowly towards quitting time. Peggy let out a sigh and rubbed her fingertips against the headache that'd been building all afternoon. She was exhausted. Balancing her everyday S.S.R. job with her and Howard's foundling, secret project kept her days and nights plenty filled. To top it off, the past few weeks contained too many nights in a row chasing down thugs for one reason or another.

While clearing Howard Stark's name several months back had finally earned her a level of respect at the S.S.R., it also came with Thompson pawning off petty case after petty case onto her desk. He spent his hours trying to earn glory collaring members of the big crimes families—"trying" being the operative word. He encouraged her to "earn some overtime," but she knew exactly what he was doing. If he thought he could burden her or wear her out to the point that she'd stop proving herself or requesting bigger cases, he didn't know a damn thing about her.

"Hey, Peg?"

Peggy looked up from the paperwork spread across her desk. "Yes, Daniel?" Rain pattered gently against the windows behind her.

"Got one for you." Agent Daniel Sousa plodded over, leaning into his brace for support with every other step.

Peggy raised her eyebrow. "Really?"

He passed her a couple papers. "Police got a call from a lady—said she heard gunshots. This was followed by a call from somebody else at the same location talking about gunshots and a tall man fleeing the scene."

Peggy skimmed his notes.

Sousa continued, "Thought it might've been mob-related, except the officer who first arrived said the body was floating and glowing blue."

"What? How?" asked Peggy.

Sousa's lips quirked up. "That's exactly what I said." He tapped at a line on the page. "He panicked—closed off the apartment and called us. Too scared to report in until we've had a look."

"Hmm." Peggy pursed her lips. "They do love to dump the crazy ones on us for fun, don't they?"

Sousa chuckled. "After the year we've had? I don't blame 'em."

"Too true," Peggy agreed with an amused smile.

They certainly had dealt with their fair share—and then some—of fantastical things at the S.S.R., especially while chasing down Howard's stolen inventions back in the spring. But Howard was fairly sure they'd recovered all the items, so this was likely something new and terrible.

She handed Sousa the papers back. "Sounds intriguing, to be sure. Let me know how it goes."

"You're not coming?"

Peggy sighed and crossed her arms over her chest. "You know Thompson won't let me tackle anything with real meat on it. He's desperate to run me into the ground with menial tasks...though at least he's stopped asking me to fetch him a coffee."

"Ah," Sousa straightened. "Apparently he doesn't, and I quote, 'have the time to check out this Invisible Man shit when there's super-powered mobsters on the loose'." He held the papers back up and out.

"So he's dumping it in my lap?"

"Bingo."

Peggy stood and barely stopped a full-on grin. "Thought it was beneath him, did he?" She scooped up her coat.

"Very. Said it was a couple crazies with delusions, a paranoid lieutenant, and a waste of time. Told me to hand it back to the police—or give it to you."

"Charming. Well then, let's go solve a bizarre little murder and leave Agent Thompson to his very important crime bosses."

* * *

 **[ STEVE ]**

* * *

If the shape of the thing wasn't his first clue, then the smell was a dead giveaway: Steve was in a dumpster.

He forced away a wave of nausea unrelated to the smell (which was plenty nauseating) and rolled his shoulders, fighting the ache in his muscles. Though glad to be alive—considering his last memory was of a bomb detonating—he felt pretty battered.

He groaned loudly and hauled himself out of the metal container, shaking off the bits of garbage that clung to his suit.

"Perfect," he shook his head with irritation. He wrinkled his nose at the odor now emanating from his torso.

With a pang of panic, he realized his shield wasn't in his hands—though he remembered reaching for it—and clambered back into the dumpster to retrieve it. Irrational sadness clawed at his chest when his search turned up empty. He tried in vain to assure himself that maybe it wasn't gone, just misplaced… Maybe it was back at the bomb site...wherever that was.

 _It's just a piece of metal_ , he thought, knowing in his heart even as he thought it that it was so much more than that. It was part of him and it had been with him for so long, through _everything_. He blinked away the sudden moisture in his eyes and refused to dwell on it. He'd find it or he wouldn't, but right now he had bigger things to worry about.

The dumpster he'd crawled out of was located in a narrow, filthy alleyway. Garbage and blackened newspapers cluttered the cracked stones beneath his feet. Everything was damp and glistening; the smell of fresh rain was stronger the farther he moved away from the dumpster.

Steve doused his hands in a shallow, muddy puddle, figuring it was better than nothing to clean off the garbage clinging to them. He couldn't do anything about his clothes yet, but at least his hands didn't reek as much.

The smell from the dumpster was nothing compared to the slimy mess the team had had to clean off themselves last month when a giant, blubbery alien had exploded in the middle of Los Angeles, but Steve suspected Tony was still going to tease him about this anyway.

Beside the puddle was a sodden five-dollar bill that someone must have dropped. Steve grasped it very gingerly, shaking off the excess water. He looked up, but no one was around, so he gently folded the wet paper and tucked it even more carefully, lest it tear, into his pocket. He didn't have his wallet on him in his suit, so—he figured it couldn't hurt to take the cash with him, since he had no clue where he was or how to get back to the team.

 _Just in case…_

He fought off the wave of dread building in his chest and refused to finish that thought.

He looked around the alley, which was otherwise unremarkable, hoping foolishly that he would see his shield where he hadn't before. He wondered where he was. It didn't look familiar like New York, but then again Steve hadn't exactly been down every single alleyway in the city to know that off-hand.

He walked towards the street beyond the alley to locate the rest of the team, hoping they were close.

At first, Steve thought he'd accidentally walked onto a film set, so much so that he took an involuntary step back into the alley. Next, he fought down a near-crippling wave of panic and worry, because it looked like he'd woken up in the wrong decade.

 _Again._

* * *

 **_[ CLINT ]_ **

* * *

The first several seconds after Clint woke were pretty much like the last few seconds before he'd lost consciousness: loud, chaotic, and blurry.

A cracking _boom_ had him instinctively rolling away from the noise. Something wet, smelling like salt, sprayed him. For a split second, he fell. His breath stopped short in his chest. Then he was underwater, waves roiling around him.

Panic shot through Clint, leaving him even more disoriented at the abrupt loss of oxygen. He kicked his legs hard, fighting to find the surface. He broke through with a gasp, choking on sea water, trying to shake it from his eyes. He'd been on a dock, he realized, glancing around, and it hadn't been an explosion, just thunder. Clint fought his way to the shore, which wasn't far—but with the storm tossing him like a piece of flotsam, he was lucky to make it there at all.

He clawed his way up the sand, away from the waves. Another deafening crack of thunder sounded overhead. Tossing a glance behind him, he could see lightning burning forked patterns in the sky. The wind kicked up around him, dousing him with even more rain.

Coughing and sputtering, he looked around for the rest of the Avengers but there wasn't anyone in sight. How the hell was he here, on some beach in a thunderstorm, and not in that sketchy house with Lazarus and the others? Cursing to himself, he spotted a small shack, perhaps fifty feet away from the water's edge and sought its shelter. On unsteady legs, he made a break for it.

 _Guess Bruce was right,_ he thought, thinking about the scientist's murmuring under his breath while Lazarus ranted. _The bomb was a displacement thingy and threw us around the planet after all. Or me, at least._

As he neared the shack, he realized there was a padlock on the door, but that it hadn't been closed properly. He exhaled in relief, wrenched off the lock, hopped into the shack, and slammed the shuddering wooden door shut behind him.

The little shack was some sort of equipment storage unit, jammed with fishing rods, a canoe, life jackets, paddles, and various other sea-related paraphernalia. There wasn't much room for Clint, but he cleared a pile of nets off a stack of old crates and had a seat, still trying to get his breath back from his tumultuous arrival. And, damn it, his bow was gone and the quiver on his back was empty. He pulled it off and dropped it with a wet thud.

Still, he'd woken up worse.

* * *

 **[ PEGGY ]**

* * *

The two people who'd called the police were neighbors, and they didn't have much more to offer than what they'd already said over the phone.

The woman heard gunshots, called the police, and hid in her bathroom until they arrived. The man had broken a coffee mug in his haste to get to his door at the sound of the commotion and spotted someone running away. The man had called after him, but wisely hadn't take chase, and instead had hurried to phone the police.

The door to the apartment of the victim had been unlocked, according to the first responding officer and his partner, Novak and Grimes respectively, implying the attacker was no stranger to the deceased. Novak radioed for dispatch to contact the S.S.R., while Grimes had run from the apartment and been unwilling to re-enter since.

"We've been standing guard," Novak reported with a shaky nod. His face was pale, but Peggy wasn't sure if that was his usual pallor, or if he was still shocked over what he'd seen. "No one's been allowed near the place."

Sousa thanked the officers while Peggy entered the apartment.

"Oh," she breathed.

Inside, the place was a mess, implying there'd been a struggle. In the middle of the living room, hovering above the wrecked coffee table, was the body: one Dan Smith. He simply hung there, horizontal and surrounded by a gentle, softly sparkling blue glow, with no visible way of staying aloft.

"It's magic," Novak said behind her. "There's no other explanation."

"Couldn't be," Sousa murmured.

Peggy grabbed the umbrella near the door and gave the body a poke.

"Carter," Sousa grumbled in warning, but nothing happened. He stayed at her side when she stepped forward to get a closer look.

Still nothing happened when she poked Mr. Smith's body a second time. It moved just as dead body being jabbed with the end of an umbrella should. Except for the fact that he had a rounded scorch mark on his chest, and he was floating and encased in blue, the body seemed perfectly normal.

"Well, this _is_ odd," Peggy remarked.

She waved her other hand gingerly near Mr. Smith. Sousa tensed at her side, but once again, nothing happened. In fact, nothing happened the entire time as they took photos and statements or while Sousa coaxed people inside the room to help take stock of the evidence. After the body was pulled down, strapped to a gurney and removed, without trouble or incident, Peggy finally noticed an even stranger thing about the scene.

"There's no blood," she remarked.

Sousa glanced up from taking notes. "What?"

"Look." She gestured about the space: full of debris, bits of glass, a couple shattered vases, and the broken coffee table. "If there were gunshots, a fleeing suspect, and the victim was shot, where's the blood?"

Sousa blinked. "But if the mark on his chest was from a gun…?"

"Exactly. If it was, where's the blood?"

Sousa glanced around, his forehead crinkling. "Well, then…how did he die?"

"That is an excellent question."

"Theories?"

Peggy shrugged. "Magic?" She smiled at him.

"Ha, ha," he said humorlessly.

"Do you have a better explanation?"

Sousa exhaled, staring at the place where the man's bizarre floating body had been. "Not yet."

"Until further notice then," she replied. Peggy glanced at her watch. "Are you all right to finish up? I'm sorry, it's just that I've made plans I can't break."

"No, sure, go ahead." Sousa waved her on. "I'll take care of the last of this and leave the files on your desk."

"Thanks a bunch, Daniel." She offered him a warm smile and left the apartment.

She wasn't keen on ducking out on a case, especially such a strange one, but the Howling Commandos were in town and she didn't want to miss her opportunity to see them. It'd been far too long. At least Dugan would be sticking around to help her, Phillips, and Howard with their burgeoning project, but she rather suspected the rest of them would scatter without Dugan holding them together. They'd assuredly stay in touch, but subsequent visits would be trickier with them here and there across the continent.

When Peggy arrived at the lavish home that Howard and Jarvis had procured for her, she nearly opened the door on Angie.

"Whoa there!" her friend yelped, and jumped out of the way.

"Sorry!" Peggy bustled in. "Bad timing." She took in Angie's coat—the nice red one she wore when she was going somewhere important. "Audition?"

Angie nodded, grinning. "Yep. For a bit part, but a bit part in a Pat O'Brien movie!"

"Good luck!"

"You?"

"The Commandos are in town for likely one night only," said Peggy, doffing her coat and hanging it up in the front closet. Though Angie only knew a little of what Peggy really did at the S.S.R., she knew most of Peggy's wartime history by now, thanks to plenty of nights sharing this house, some wine, and lots of memories.

Angie lit up with excitement and Peggy rolled her eyes. Her friend was forever hopelessly hoping for juicy stories of romance from Peggy.

"No, nothing like that. They're dear old friends who I haven't seen in almost a year. One of them is going to be working at my job soon, though, which will be nice."

"Ooh, a workplace romance, English? Think of the scandal!" Angie winked.

"Oh, do go on," Peggy laughed, practically shoving Angie out the door.

"Have fun," Angie drawled over her shoulder. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

Peggy waved her friend on and shut the door behind her, chuckling, then went to get ready for her evening out with the Commandos.

* * *

 **[ STEVE ]**

* * *

Steve took a deep breath.

Even if he hadn't recently crash coursed his way through the last sixty-seven or so years of history he'd missed, the team had shown him enough shows and films for him to have a guess at where—or, more correctly he supposed, _when_ —he was: the 70's were rather unmistakable.

While he was busy staring at the Afros and flowy bell-bottom pants, he tried to bring his heart rate down. The people passing him shot him odd looks, taking in the bright blue, red, and white uniform stained with dumpster debris that Steve sported.

He backed farther into the alley and fell against the stone wall of the adjacent building. This was déjà vu in the worst way. This was waking up in a foreign place, a foreign time, far removed from those he loved. Again, again, _again_.

Steve raised his shaking hand to cover his eyes and forced himself to breath. Because, no, this also wasn't like last time. This was a machine that sent him to the past and if there was a machine involved, then Tony could work with that. It wasn't hopeless and he wasn't so far removed that everyone he knew was dead. They were just...not here.

 _Or they're children_ , he thought wryly and the thought of toddler Tony out there somewhere in this time was amusing enough to startle a chuckle out of the captain.

No, it wasn't hopeless. He hadn't connected with and cared for a whole new team of people to lose them again—there had to be a way out, and if he couldn't find it, one of them would. He was sure of it.

Steve straightened, taking another settling breath, and let his hand fall to his side. Right, so the first thing to do was to get out of his outfit. It was probably about the least subtle thing he could be wearing unless today happened to be October 31 or he could claim he was on his way to a costume party. But how to get a new outfit with no money? He was pretty sure the fiver in his pocket wouldn't cover a whole new outfit, and he wasn't about to steal anything, so that left begging or borrowing.

Well, Clint always told him that he had a "good ol' boy, honest sorta charm" about him, so Steve figured he'd have to put that to use.

Exiting the alley again, this time Steve forged forward, and tried not to feel too self-conscious as his outfit garnered more and more stares. He also tried not to feel too wildly off-kilter walking down streets, still feeling like he'd accidentally fallen into a movie. He glanced at stores and shops as he walked, craning his neck to stare up at the buildings around him to try to determine his location.

Steve liked drawing and he enjoyed history; as a result, he had spent a lot of time sketching famous skylines. As his eyes landed on one building in particular, he realized what city he was in—the Sears Tower was unmistakable, if built well after Steve's original time.

He was in Chicago.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/n: Thank you guys for the overwhelmingly positive response to this! Your questions about Clint will have to wait, but the answers will be soon, I promise. ;)  
_

* * *

 **[ STEVE ]**

" _Are we seeing the time 11 minutes ago on Mars? Or are we seeing the time on Mars as observed from Earth now? It's like time travel problems in science fiction. When is now; when was then?" –Bill Nye_

* * *

After stopping a couple of nice-looking old ladies to ask for directions, Steve found his way to the nearest public gym. Hopefully they'd have a large Lost & Found bin. It was the best solution he could think of to take care of his clothes problem for the time being—especially given that those five bucks were all he had now. He'd need to get some food eventually.

He more or less flirted his way past the girl at the front counter so he could use the showers, though he could hear Bucky in his head saying, _You call that flirting?,_ which made him smile.

Steve scrubbed every inch of his skin to remove the garbage smell that was determined to cling to him. He focused on the simple act of cleaning himself rather than the more overwhelming problem at hand. Once dry, he bundled up his reeking, filthy uniform and reluctantly stuffed it in the trash.

He sighed, approaching the bathroom counter and stared at his reflection and his borrowed clothes. The dark sweatpants weren't ideal, nor was the faded green shirt with the peeling blue logo on the back, but they'd been the only things that fit him. Steve supposed it didn't matter what he looked like anyway.

The man in the mirror was tired and frightened. _Now what?_

Steve tried running through his options, but they were pretty damn limited. He had no ID, almost no money, no contacts, no cell phone, no friends. His mind cast around and he realized all over again that he was in the 70s.

The _1970s_.

He'd crashed in the 40s and woken in the 2010's to discover everyone he loved was dead or gone (except for Peggy, but he couldn't bring himself to call because…well, for a lot of reasons). He tried not think about that—he had more immediate problems at the moment—but this was thirty or so years earlier than when he'd woken from the ice and a mere thirty-something years after he'd originally disappeared. The chances his friends were still alive were pretty damn good because it was _only the 1970s_.

Steve's heart beat a nervous, excited tattoo against his ribs as he gripped the bathroom counter. A thrill of emotion bombarded him. He could see them, he could find them, he could hug them and laugh and swap stories and have a beer or two.

The ache to see them—Dugan and Jim and Gabe and Jacques and Falsworth and—was suddenly so strong he nearly collapsed under its weight, but instead he grinned like an idiot. _He could see them again._

And Howard! He could find Howard, and Howard would know what to do, how to get Steve back to his own team and time (eventually) because the man was a genius, and if Steve couldn't have Tony here, then Howard might—

"Steve!"

The voice cut through the locker room sudden and sharp, and Steve reeled backwards, hands up defensively. Except the voice had sounded like—

"Steve?" said Bruce again, sounding more unsure than excited this time.

Steve blinked at the mirror before him in shock. Instead of the rows of stall doors and sinks behind him, a large portion of the mirror showed Bruce, who peered at the captain, looking exhausted and hopeful.

"B—Bruce?" Steve spluttered. "How're you…"

Was this a hallucination? A side effect of the bomb somehow?

Bruce sat back in his seat and exhaled. "Thank God, _finally_. Okay, listen to me," he said, and leaned forward again. The image of him rippled unsteadily. "This is not the most stable method of communication. Where are you—and when?"

"I—Chicago, somewhere in the 70s," Steve answered at once, relaxing his stance, despite a hundred thoughts that pinged around his brain. Bruce was all business, though almost frantic, and Steve bit down on his questions as much as he could.

"How long has it been for you?" Bruce asked. The image of him wavered and faded for a moment before clearing up again. The physicist swore. "Steve?"

"An hour, maybe less," said Steve. "Bruce, how—"

The image disappeared completely, Bruce's voice garbled before it fizzled to nothing.

Steve waited breathlessly for a moment, not even sure what he was waiting for. What the hell had just happened? Maybe the bomb had done a number on him and he was seeing things. Maybe he should get some sleep somewhere—find Howard, figure things out…

Then suddenly Bruce was back, though he looked somehow different—the lighting or something. It was even more confusing than seeing him before.

"Bruce," Steve began, and so many questions tried to jam their way out of his mouth that he ended up hesitating and spreading his hands out in a helpless gesture.

"Cap, I got you back," Bruce cracked a tiny, crooked smile. "Looks like the same day, too."

"Yeah, you just disappeared and reappeared…"

"Really?" Bruce's forehead crunched with confusion. "Steve, before I lose you again, this is important: we've been dropped at different points in time. Be extremely careful—I have no idea what kind of effect this could have on history, but try everything you can to have _no_ effect."

Steve nodded at once. Sure, that made easy sense. No messing with history.

Bruce frowned and added uneasily, "Which means, I'm sorry, but you can't get in contact with anyone you might know, from…from your old life. You're supposed to disappear in 1945 and wake up in 2012—you suddenly showing up in any one of their lives in the seventies could have catastrophic—"

The image blinked out for a moment and Steve's heart sank fast, both at the loss of contact, and because it meant the earlier flash of joy at reuniting with Dugan or Peggy or Howard was up in smoke. Irrational tears pricked his eyes before he could stop them, and then Bruce was back.

"—solution on my end," he finished, unaware he'd lost Steve. "I'll get us back together, Steve," Bruce promised. "I'll get you home. Just keep your head down, okay?"

Steve didn't bother mentioning that he no longer _had_ a home—that it was long lost, buried in history, back in another decade somewhere. Ten months after waking up, and he still ached from the loss, no matter how hard he tried to settle in.

Before Steve had the chance to reply, his friend was gone again in a crackle of broken syllables. He waited, waited, and waited some more, but after twenty minutes and a handful of people coming and going in the locker room, Bruce did not reappear.

Steve clenched his jaw, and not knowing what else to do, left the gym.

Out on the sunny street, he shoved his hands deep in his borrowed pockets. He turned Bruce's words over in his head again and again as he walked aimlessly. He was both relieved and disappointed, and didn't know why. Well, he supposed he _did_ know why, he just didn't want to dwell on it.

He was glad Bruce was working on getting him out of here, but he hadn't realized how wonderful the mere prospect of seeing Howard and his friends again had been until it had been taken away. The world had opened up to him for only one amazing moment, only to slam shut on his face, cruelly closed forever all over again.

Steve spotted a park and idly made his way over, settling on the first bench he saw under a large tree full of budding leaves. There were few times Steve had ever felt this lonely and both involved being in the wrong decade. He almost smiled bitterly at the thought. At least this time, there was a way out. Or, he hoped so, based on Bruce mentioning a "solution."

Steve watched people of the past flitting around him and hoped Bruce's solution worked soon. Very soon.

* * *

Steve walked down the streets of Chicago with no particular destination in mind. After hanging around the park for a while, he'd started to feel restless and helpless again, so he'd made himself get up and go somewhere.

He'd checked out a few shops and eateries, though he didn't really have money to spend and wasn't hungry—he was still a little nauseated and food wasn't terribly appealing just yet anyway. Steve kept an eye out for a library, which would be a good (and free) way to spend some time. Plus, maybe he could find something to help his situation, though that hope was a dim one.

Eventually he'd have to figure out what to do when nightfall came, or when he got hungry. Since it was only late afternoon, though, he didn't have to worry about that quite yet.

 _One thing at a time,_ Steve thought.

He kept having moments of gut-wrenching fear if he thought too hard about his situation. Thinking about spending who-knows-how-many nights in Chicago _somewhere_ , with no money, in the wrong decade, certainly did not help that. But he forced the feelings away as best as he could.

A young boy barrelled into Steve, almost knocking him over. Steve gasped in surprise, while the kid tumbled to the sidewalk after the impact. Steve leaned over to help him up, rubbing his ribs where the kid's head had impacted him.

"Whoa, are you all right?"

"Sorry man," the boy apologized in a hurry. He looked no more than fifteen, with dark hair, dressed in a grungy set of mismatched clothes. He waved Steve off and carried on down the sidewalk at a brisk jog.

"Hey, stop that kid!"

Steve glanced over his shoulder and saw a heavy-set older man in a gray apron hurrying towards him, waving his arms frantically. The captain turned back to see the kid tearing off down the street, and the older man hollered, " _Thief!_ "

Steve bolted after the kid without a second thought. He dove around other pedestrians and ducked around a corner, hot on the boy's tail. The kid could _run_ , Steve would give him that, but he was a lot faster and caught up with the kid in seconds. Steve reached out and grabbed his arm, yanking the boy to an ungraceful stop.

"Let go of me, man!" the kid shouted, trying and failing to pull out of Steve's iron grip. "I said sorry!"

"I think you have something that doesn't belong to you," Steve said mildly, but there was a threatening edge to his tone that the boy couldn't miss.

The kid levelled a fiery blue-eyed gaze at the captain and shoved a canister of unopened coffee at Steve with unnecessary force. "There, fine, take it!" he shouted. "Now let me go!"

The older man caught up to them, panting and limping into the alley. Steve held tight to his charge, despite the boy's renewed efforts to run away.

"Th—thanks, fella," the man in the apron gasped out, swiping at the sweat beaded on his forehead. "Damn kid—turned my…back…for…one second."

Steve passed the can of coffee to the man. "No problem."

The man took it then stuck out his other hand for Steve to shake. "Name's Murray. I run a grocery three blocks down."

The boy wiggled and tried to pry Steve's fingers off, but Steve remained unmoved. He gave Murray's proffered hand a friendly shake.

"Steve. Good to meet you."

"Thanks again for catching this boy," Murray said, pushing a sweaty hand through his mop of gray hair. "I can't have any thieves lifting goods from my shop." He glared angrily at the boy, whose cheeks flared red with shame as he dropped his gaze.

"He's not going to do it again. Right?" said Steve.

The kid frowned fiercely at the captain, but shook his head in agreement.

"And he's very sorry to have caused you any trouble," added Steve. When the boy didn't say anything, Steve tugged on his arm, giving him a little shake.

"Yeah, I'm sorry," the boy apologized through clenched-tight teeth. At Steve's raised eyebrow, the boy tried again in a much more genuine tone. "I'm _sorry_ , mister."

Murray pursed his lips, but then shrugged. "Ah, no harm done, really. We were all young and stupid once." He gave a great belly laugh before fixing the boy with a much more serious look. "But see that this doesn't happen again, or next time I'm callin' the police, you hear me, boy?"

The boy deflated even more, but nodded. "Yessir," he mumbled.

Satisfied, Murray nodded as well, thanked Steve again, and headed out of the alley. Steve continued to hold tight to the boy's arm.

"What's your name, son?" he asked.

"It doesn't matter," the boy grumbled. "Can I go now?"

"Not yet. Why'd you steal the coffee?"

"Because I needed it," the kid said hotly. "Why else would I steal it?"

Steve smirked. "You seem a little young for a coffee addiction."

"I wasn't gonna drink it," the boy growled, as if Steve were the world's biggest idiot. He gave a sharp pull away from Steve, but to no avail. "Will you let me _go_?"

"Where are your parents? Your family?" Steve pressed, not willing to give up just yet. "Shouldn't you be in school?"

"Shouldn't you be doing something more useful with your time then holding a kid hostage in an alleyway?" the boy shot back.

Steve frowned, realizing there probably wasn't a way to win with this kid. He'd given the coffee back, so technically there was no reason to turn him in. The boy refused to reveal his name, so Steve couldn't return him to his family either. He crouched down so he could be eye to eye with the kid, who was surprised and suspicious by the action.

"I'll let you go on one condition: you promise not to steal any more stuff," said Steve.

The kid rolled his eyes. "Yeah, sure, I promise."

Steve pinned the boy with his best steely _I mean business_ Captain America gaze. "Hey. Stealing is not okay. It's against the law, and the next person you steal from may not be nearly as forgiving as Murray."

The boy shifted uncomfortably.

"So I want you to promise me that you won't steal anymore, okay?"

The kid stared down at his shoes, his cheeks flaring red again, but he nodded and mumbled, "I'm sorry."

Steve smiled a little. "Okay," he said. He waited another second, then released his grip on the kid's arm.

The boy rubbed at the red spot left behind, watched Steve for a breath or two, and then took off, glancing over his shoulder like he was worried Steve would follow. The captain sighed, wondering if the kid was simply running off to a different store to continue stealing and the incident just now had made no difference to him whatsoever. He hoped that wasn't the case, as the boy had seemed guilted enough.

The funny thing was, the boy reminded him a little bit of Bucky when they were kids—the darker hair, the defiant blue eyes. Bucky hadn't been running around thieving of course, so the comparison kind of ended there. It still made Steve smile a bit nonetheless.

He shook his head and walked out of the alley; he had bigger things to worry about at the moment than a kid with a premature caffeine affection.

Despite knowing that Bruce was somewhere working on a solution, Steve was going crazy with helplessness. It may have been less than a day, but Steve was never one to idle. There was another reason to find a library—strolling around shops earlier had been fine when he'd been content to do nothing other than heed his friend, but then he'd realized there was no reason why he couldn't try to do _something_ helpful.

Hopefully, by the time Bruce made contact again, Steve would able to give him some sort of useful information, though Steve currently didn't know what in the hell that might be. He dug his hands into his pockets and continued on down the street.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/n: FINALLY! Guys, I've been having massive trouble with uploading to FF, so aside from Life forcing me away from writing lately, I've also had to fight this site to upload this finally finished chapter. Major apologies for such a delay! Anyways, here's Clint... Enjoy!_

* * *

 **[ CLINT ]**

" _I've got a friend who specializes in trouble. He dives in and usually finds a way." –Ian Chesterton (about the Doctor), Doctor Who_

* * *

Clint's mind spun as he stumbled down the sidewalk.

After the storm had subsided, Clint had ventured out of the little shack on the beach. By that time, it seemed to be about late afternoon. He'd discovered a couple of pristine vintage cars—Clint was pretty sure they were 1940-somethings—parked by the docks. Their owners were nowhere in sight; no doubt they'd sought shelter from the storm as well. He'd wondered if there'd been a car show going on nearby and shook his head at the carelessness of the owners who'd leave their antiques out in a storm.

From the shed, it'd been a long walk from the beach to more crowded streets, where Clint promptly had to fight throwing up, collapsing or both. He hadn't understood what that bomb had done to him and his team when he'd first woken up on the dock, but looking at New York—Brooklyn, to be exact—circa 1940 or 50-something gave him a pretty solid idea. Clint narrowed down the decade because he loved old photos and especially old photos of New York—it was something he and Steve had in common, even if the reasons behind loving the photos were far more personal for Steve.

Clint ran his shaking fingers through his hair and worked to calm his breathing. He felt _exactly_ like Marty McFly (for God's sake, Clint was even wearing a _vest_ ), staggering up streets that were simultaneously familiar and unfamiliar, as Frank Sinatra crooned from a café down on the corner. The archer pinched his forearm harder and harder, willing himself to wake up, but to no avail.

Signage scattered here and there in shop windows told him it was September, and a glance at a newspaper on a bench moments later informed him it was September 3, 1946.

He mentally scrolled through what he could remember of history at that time. _Truman's the president._ _It's after World War II. Before the Korean War, color TV, and Disneyland. Should be damn close to S.H.I.E.L.D. forming though—that might be helpful._

The clouds from the storm had long since parted and the sun hung low in the sky, casting deep orange and yellow hues across the city. Since it was late in the summer, Clint figured it was evening.

He slumped against a brick wall to catch his breath, because this was crazy— _beyond_ crazy. This was catastrophically, terribly, mind-blowingly insane. In his line of work, especially lately, absolutely impossible shit happened all the damn time, so he really shouldn't have been that surprised that a mad scientist had managed to trap him and his team and zap them all to the past. But here he was, all the same.

Well, he was assuming the team part. Maybe it was just him. If they were here in 1946, he had no way to contact them, even if he still had his phone on him, which he did not. And it wasn't like he could just ask around after them ("Excuse me, have you seen a guy in a cape, a guy in shiny red armour, and a really big green guy smashing buildings?" That'd probably go over super well).

Plus, he supposed there was no guarantee Lazarus _had_ sent them all back together, at the same time, because: volatile evil genius.

Clint scrubbed his hand over his face. He had to figure out his next move. He didn't know where to go, but there was always one next move. In every situation, no matter how dire, he didn't give up, and this was no different—or so he told himself. He also had never been trapped sixty years in the past before.

 _I need a drink_ , he thought, and decided for now, that was the next best move.

Gritting his teeth, Clint dug his hands into his still damp pockets and started down the street. He tried to avoid eye contact with everyone who stared at his odd attire—the black and purple vest was super subtle among their suits, sweaters, and coats, though at least he'd left the useless quiver behind in the shack—and kept an eye out for an open and inviting pub. Thankfully, he only had to go a few blocks farther.

He elbowed in the swinging door and headed straight for the bar, keeping his head down. It wasn't until Clint reached the bar and settled on the stool with slight squelch that he'd realized his colossal error: no money. At least, not any that nineteen-fucking-forty-six would recognize.

 _Unless they take MasterCard, I am officially screwed,_ he thought. He swore under his breath as he slammed his fist on the counter. The action and curse garnered a startled sideways look from a man a few stools down, and Clint shot him a glare he didn't deserve. The man raised his eyebrows and glanced away with a shake of his head. Clint returned his brooding gaze to the sticky wooden bar under his elbows.

"Rough day?" asked the bartender, sidling over. He was a tall slender man with a heavy, dark mustache.

"You have no idea, pal," Clint grunted.

"What'll it be?"

Clint heaved a sigh. "Well, considering I just realized I have _no_ _money,_ it'll be nothing. Thanks, anyways."

The bartender looked him over critically. "You want a water or somethin' then?"

"Sure, fine, gimme a water."

The worst part, Clint decided, was that since this was sixty or so years ago, the alcohol was probably dirt cheap in comparison to what he was used to paying. It irked him all the more that he was literally penniless at the moment. The bartender returned and handed Clint his water. The archer thanked him grimly and sipped. Hydration was good, at least.

Above the bar was a skinny, tarnished mirror, running horizontal behind rows of glasses. Clint raised his eyes to focus on the glasses, just to give his mind something to do—clear out everything that had happened, that _was_ happening, and relax. It was a lot easier to think when he was calm than when he was pissed off.

As he stared at the glasses, some movement in the mirror caught his eye as some patron walked past a colorful poster. The mirror was too narrow to properly make it out, so Clint swivelled on his stool to inspect the signage clearly. He was both startled and pleased when Steve's face looked back at him from a large, framed poster near the bar's entrance. Clint would've called it a vintage Captain America poster, but "vintage" didn't really apply in this situation, seeing as how the poster was barely a few years old, if that.

As the archer mused on the way his friend saluted on the paper, a group of people entered the pub and momentarily blocked his view. Clint's heart walloped into his ribs when he recognized the women at the front of the group. Her eyes took a detour to the poster and her red lips turned up in a sad little smile before she followed her friends to a nearby table.

He'd seen her file a dozen times. He'd seen her picture—Steve had shown him her picture and told him stories. She was a _legend._

Holy God, it was Peggy Carter.

Clint couldn't believe his luck. _Of all the pubs in all the world, she came walking into mine…_ He set his water down with an unsteady clatter and hopped off his stool before he realized he had no idea what the hell he should be saying to her.

Then, maybe because he'd been thrown sixty-something years into the past and his brain was a little fried, Clint decided it didn't matter because it was Peggy and she knew Steve, and _hey so did he_.

"Hey, sorry to interrupt," Clint said the second he'd reached her table. The laughter of the men around her ceased and they all regarded him with curious and suspicious looks. "Peggy, right?"

Peggy's brow creased slightly. "Sorry, do I know you?"

"Do you mind—can I talk to you for a sec?" asked Clint. His heart thudded fast in his chest. She worked with S.H.I.E.L.D., she helped found S.H.I.E.L.D., she knew Steve—hell, she knew _Tony's dad_ , and if anyone would be able to fix this mess and get him home…

Peggy stood and smoothed down her dark skirt, but didn't step away from the table. She raised a questioning eyebrow at him.

Clint swallowed and dove in. At the time he failed to realize how utterly idiotic this course of action was, but, he blamed it on the whole time-travel-scrambling-his-brain thing.

"Look, this is going to sound…beyond insane. Trust me, I know exactly how ridiculous this is going to sound. But," Clint cleared his throat and lowered his voice a couple notches so Peggy's buddies wouldn't be able to hear him over the pub's atmospheric din. "I work for the same agency as you, only sixty or so years in the future. My team and I are tasked with saving the world from…impossible threats, and today we lost, and I was sent back in time, to here and now. I need your help—your _agency's_ help to get back to where I belong."

Peggy's pretty features gave nothing away as she listened, aside from the slightest purse of her lips. _Damn, she's good_ , thought Clint. He wanted to see her and Natasha in a room together, trying to get a read on each other.

"The uh, the other thing is…that Steve Rogers is part of my team," Clint continued, still keeping his voice low. At this, Peggy straightened a little, peering at him closely. Encouraged, Clint hurried on, "After he crashed, he was frozen, and you guys never found him, but we did. Something about his serum must've kept him alive in the snow, because he's fine now, and he…well, I'm sure he wishes he was the one thrown here instead of me."

The archer finished with a hopeful smile and was relieved that he'd gained an ally.

The relief was very short-lived.

"I see," said Peggy. "For a moment there, I thought you were just a crazy drunk. But if you know _Steve_ …"

"Thank God," Clint exhaled, glancing away from her as he ran his hand through his hair. "You know, for a minute there, _I_ thought—"

Her fist came flying out of nowhere and smashed into his jaw. He was so surprised she'd hit him, he stumbled and pin-wheeled backwards. The men with Peggy jumped to their feet in an instant, shoving chairs out of their way, glaring and cracking their knuckles.

The noise level in the pub dipped as Clint straightened up, gently holding the spot where she'd smacked him.

"Everything okay here?" asked the bartender, appearing between Clint and Peggy.

"Peachy," Peggy replied crisply. "He was just leaving."

The bartender turned questioning eyes to Clint.

"Yeah, uh," said the archer. "I was." He made his way out of the pub, shooting glances over his shoulder to ensure Peggy's friends weren't about to follow him.

Clint sucked in a breath of chilly fresh air outside. _Nice one, Barton,_ he thought angrily. _Real smooth._

* * *

Clint skulked in the shadows across from the pub for almost two full hours before Peggy and her friends finally emerged. She bid most of them goodnight and they headed on their merry way down the block. The biggest guy in the group stayed behind ( _Of course_ , Clint thought with irritation) and told Peggy he'd go get the car. Clint figured this was as good an opportunity as he was probably going to get, so he crossed the street.

"You again," said Peggy flatly when he approached.

"Me again," Clint confirmed with a wince. Now that the damage was done with his head-on approach from earlier, he was just going to have to run with it while figuring out his next move.

"You should know I have a loaded pistol and I know exactly how to use it." Peggy made no move to retrieve it, though he watched her stance shift almost imperceptibly. She was alert and ready to grab it, even if her demeanour suggested little more than casual interest.

"Oh, I believe you," Clint chuckled. "I've heard stories."

Peggy's expression changed slightly, and he could tell she was caught off guard by his comment, even if she did an excellent job of hiding it.

"Please, hear me out," he pleaded. "I _know_ how weird this all is—no one knows more than me."

"And why should I?"

"Because I know—"

"Do not say Steve."

Clint sighed and bit back his reply. _But I do,_ he wanted to say. _We're friends—we're actually really good friends, and he's told me all about you._ Instead, he tried, "Put me in touch with Howard, then. I know his so—of him."

"You still haven't given me a good reason to do anything for you," said Peggy.

She was right, and he was completely floundering. What could he say to convince her? He'd totally blown it earlier, and there was no way to backtrack from that without continuing to sound like an absolute crazy person. He supposed he could try describing some of the stories Steve had told him, but she might just punch him again if she thought he was still screwing with her…

The big guy from before appeared at Peggy's shoulder, his blue eyes staring Clint down like he was something very unpleasant. Clint wasn't a big fan of that look, though truth be told it was hardly the first time he'd received it.

 _Dum Dum Dugan_ , recalled Clint, thinking of the facts and photos he'd skimmed in old S.H.I.E.L.D. files and Steve's small personal collection. He hadn't read the old stuff extensively, but he'd done a fair bit of research on a variety of topics when he was holed up watching Selvig and his pet Tesseract.

"Need some help?" Dugan inquired and crossed his beefy arms over his chest.

"It's under control at the moment," replied Peggy, tossing her friend a small smile.

"I thought she made it pretty clear she didn't want to talk to you," Dugan growled.

"Yeah, well, I'm kind of stubborn," Clint shrugged. He turned pleading eyes to Peggy and held his palms up and out. "Peggy, please."

When he took a cautious step forward, however, Dugan bristled.

"Relax, big guy, I'm not here to hurt anyone, I just want your help."

"Clint?" The voice wasn't Dugan or Peggy and Clint glanced sideways for the source, but no one else was nearby. He ignored it, needing to focus on Peggy.

"To get back to the future." Peggy stared him down and Clint could tell many weaker men had withered and died under that stare. It was no wonder at all that she'd risen in through the military ranks despite this time's attitude towards women, that she'd been an anomaly, and a founder of S.H.I.E.L.D. That Steve had liked her so much from the start.

Clint nodded. "Back to my time, and my team." He stepped forward again, slow and small.

"Look, are you _trying_ to get yourself arrested?" Peggy questioned.

Clint blinked. She had just presented him with his next move—even if it was far less than ideal. "Well, yeah, actually."

Peggy raised her eyebrow and her lip twitched like she'd very nearly smiled.

"Come a couple steps closer and that can be arranged, Mr.…" she said. If he was not mistaken, that sounded like a dare—and Clint had always had trouble refusing dares.

"Agent. Agent Clint Barton." He flashed her a wide grin. "But if you insist, m'lady."

"Clint?" There was that extra voice again, but Clint didn't have a moment to figure out where the hell it was coming from.

This time it was Dugan's fist that came flying out of nowhere. Clint let him land it, even though it made his vision go white at the edges and sent him sprawling very gracefully down to the sidewalk. He heard Peggy murmuring instructions to her mountain of a man-friend, and then Clint let himself be roughly cuffed and tossed in the back of Peggy and Dugan's car. He would've been more worried about hearing his name on the wind, but after the day he was having? Hell, it was nothing in comparison.

And yeah, getting arrested was absolutely less than ideal—he knew, as he blinked stars from his eyes. He'd have a black eye to go with the big purple bruise Peggy had given him—but he was pretty sure they were taking him to S.H.I.E.L.D.

Which happened to be _exactly_ where he needed to go.


	4. Chapter 4

_A/n: My darlings! I am FINALLY here with a new chapter for you. Why the delay? The short version is that my beta crew are having various RL crises and since I post only once I've had some other eyes on these chapters, I waited to post until I could get some beta eyes on this chapter. Then I had a couple weeks of gridlock followed by a personal loss which made me shelve writing. I'm here now, finally, and want to thank you all endlessly for the love and support and messages you guys have been giving me to encourage me. You honestly don't know how much it means to me. I promise, this fic is not, and will not, be abandoned. It's just a matter of me and my betas getting our crap together for you in a timely fashion. ;D_

 _A/n #2: Big thanks to Deannie for helping me with Chicago research, to Stars for her fabulous beta help, and to Inky for the beta and Steve help! \o/ This chapter would not exist without any you._

* * *

 ** _[ STEVE ]_**

 _Kyle Reese: "A straight line...you just go and you don't look back."  
_ _Sarah Connor: "Where did you hear that?"  
_ _Kyle Reese: "In a past I shouldn't remember...but I do."  
_ — _Terminator: Genisys_

* * *

Steve asked around and made his way to the nearest library. The Legler was huge, built from brick and stone, with massive staircases inside that made Steve stop and stare for a good minute. His fingers itched to sketch all the lines and angles.

After he'd spent a good half an hour wandering around, taking in the vast collection and different rooms, one of the librarians came over to help him. She pointed him to a variety nonfiction books on science and time travel after he told her he was doing research. Though he stayed for a couple hours until close, Steve just felt muddled, tired, hungry, and still at a loss. He glumly returned the books to the front and left the library.

He spent the evening walking without any destination or purpose. Finally, late at night, Steve passed empty baseball diamonds and tennis courts and found a park bench to sleep on, too tired to keep walking. He didn't sleep much, thanks to the general noise of the city, the chill in the air, and the hardness of the bench.

Ever since coming out of the ice, he was used to not sleeping. Maybe it was because he spent so long "asleep" and frozen, or maybe it was something else, but he caught a couple hours here and there at best nowadays, and he managed. Ever since Manhattan, Clint had referred to the Avengers as Team Insomnia: on any given night, anywhere from one to all six of them would be wandering around the Tower, not sleeping.

Steve rose shivering from his bench before dawn and began to wander aimlessly again. Once the sun came up, it was easier, and the day quickly grew warm. He walked back onto the main streets, then through some coffee shops to get the chill out of his bones. His stomach growled when he passed restaurants, throwing open their doors for the breakfast crowd, but he pressed on, not wanting to use up his lonely fiver just yet. He could stand a little hunger.

He stopped frequently at bus benches and in parks to rest his feet but it was never long before the desperate urge to _do something_ spurred him back up, even though he had no idea _what_.

People bustled by—going to work, to lunch, to see friends. They went about their morning, their afternoon, their evening. He walked streets filled with booming music and laughter, streets jammed with cars or lined with trees, streets quieter but no less active. Everywhere pulsed with life and living, and Steve plodded on, completely disconnected. Like a shadow or a ghost, shifting between clumps of color and chatter and warmth but unable to reach out and touch any of it.

 _Try everything you can to have no effect._ Bruce's words echoed in his ears. _Catastrophic. Keep your head down._

Steve dodged a drunkard stumbling down the sidewalk, ignored a woman handing out flyers, walked over crosswalk after crosswalk. The later it got, the emptier the streets became and the more the temperature slipped to a level that was cold without a coat, even for him.

 _Seriously, Capsicle?_ He could hear Tony saying. _You'd think you'd be used to the cold after seventy years._ Steve suppressed a smile.

When the sun had long disappeared, he found himself in a neighborhood more run-down than where he'd woken up the previous morning. The buildings were a little shabbier, some splattered with graffiti. Nestled between some grimy brick apartment complexes was a small diner. The once-white exterior was stained by age and weather, and the red sign on the roof proclaiming _SAL'S_ _ALL AMERICAN DINER_ had so many burnt-out letters that it was almost unreadable in the twilight.

The sign in the window proclaimed it was open twenty-four hours, though, and Steve got the feeling his sad five dollar bill might actually stretch in a place like this, so he ventured inside. His stomach clenched and cramped with hunger—he couldn't put off eating any longer. Afterwards, he decided he'd maybe try to find a homeless shelter or something to spend the night.

It was less dingy inside—tidy, well cared for, if dated, like it'd been built in the thirties but hadn't been properly fixed up since the fifties. Checkerboard floors, faded vinyl booths, splashes of orange and maroon, old Coca-Cola signs, and a banner exclaiming _CHICAGO'S BEST BANANA SPLIT SINCE 1942_. The warm colors and familiar decor gave Steve such a rush of homesickness that his knees wobbled.

He chose a booth towards the rear and settled in with a heavy sigh, the day weighing him down like chains. His stomach clenched and roared, desperate for food. He exhaled shakily.

A woman with gray hair and a nametag reading _Irma_ sauntered up to his booth. He smiled; she passed him a laminated menu with a warm but tired smile of her own.

"The apple pie is on special tonight—ninety-five cents," she told him, her voice gruff and coarse but not unkind. "A buck if you want an extra scoop of ice cream."

"Thanks," he replied.

She stepped away to let him look over the menu.

Tension slipped off his shoulders bit by bit. The prices, he was relieved to see, were a far cry closer to what he was used to, compared to the prices in 2012. It was still so strange to pay a few bucks for a bottle of water, or double or triple that for a good burger.

Steve's stomach wrenched as he surveyed the choices splayed across the menu. Burgers, fries, soup, lasagna, waffles…an eclectic mix of good ol' comfort food. Everything sounded delicious and he wished he could eat a bit of everything. He skimmed the prices, doing quick math in his head. He'd need to make that fiver last as long as possible. He was loathe to pickpocket anyone, but he might if he got desperate, he realized.

 _One meal today,_ he thought, calculating. _Figure out how to make some money. One meal the day after that if nothing changes, and then…_ Maybe, with any luck, Bruce would pull him home. He had no concept of how long he was going to be stuck here.

Irma returned. "So, what'll it be, sweetheart?"

"The single burger, please." The cheapest, plainest one on the menu. His stomach rumbled in anticipation as he passed her the menu. "And just a water to drink."

"No pie? Surely a strapping boy like you ain't watching his waist," she teased.

Steve smiled. "Can't afford the pie today," he blurted without thinking.

His cheeks grew hot. This wasn't back then—all those times he and Bucky ran into the same problem. _Can't afford the pie today_ , one of them would say to servers in their favorite diners. Not unless it was one of their birthdays or a special occasion. Eating out without their families was a big enough treat as it was, let alone ordering dessert on top of it all.

Irma just nodded and bustled away to put in his order.

Steve hunched his shoulders, disliking the return of feeling unable to escape his circumstances, of having to scrounge from one day to the next. It'd been a lot better after high school, after the Depression—things weren't nearly so tight, and they could afford pie more often.

 _It's not the olden days anymore, Cap,_ Natasha would tell him, with that sly smile of hers that was one part teasing, one part knowing, and one part something he never could quite figure out. She'd probably have casually lifted a few wallets by now, he thought, suppressing a smirk.

The burger was a little dry, the cheese processed, and the bun wasn't the freshest, but it all still tasted pretty great after Steve had been running on empty for so long, and he wolfed it down. Irma came by to check on him and gave him a funny look when he grinned with his mouth full. He swallowed, embarrassed, and she glanced over her shoulder at him. Steve gave his head a shake and kept eating.

She returned to take his plate. "How was it?"

"Best burger I've had in a while," said Steve.

Irma huffed and then studied him with all-too-knowing look that had Steve ducking his head and mumbling for the check.

"Sure thing," she said, but she came back with a mug of steaming coffee and a slice of apple pie instead.

"Sorry, no, I didn't order this," Steve said quickly as she set it down. "I just need the bill."

"It's on the house. So's the burger." She planted her hand on her hip. "You newly homeless?"

"What?"

"Ain't seen you around here before." Irma studied him. "Thought I must've—you seem awful familiar."

Steve didn't know what to say and or do, and simply sat still, heart fluttering in his chest as Irma watched him. He hadn't been properly worried that he could meet someone who knew him, but the thought ricocheted through him now. Did he know her? Had they met in an earlier decade?

"You look well enough to say you ain't been homeless long," she explained, and Steve relaxed. "You also look lost as hell, exhausted, and when you came in, hungry enough to eat everything we got and then some."

"No, I'm not really…" Steve trailed off, hesitating. _Yes,_ he thought. _I am_.

"I know the look. Seen it plenty of times before." She sighed. "Look, son, we can't give the meals away all the time." She levelled her brown-eyed gaze at him, almost in warning, then softened. "But Sal and I do what we can to take care of people down on their luck. This one's on the house."

He swallowed, warmed by her generosity. He didn't exactly deserve it—he had money to pay for his burger, and he _had_ a home, it was just...not in this decade.

"And you don't have to tell me your story, son, but I only got three customers in here, and another five hours on my shift." Irma smoothed her wrinkled hands down her apron. "I'm here, is all I'm saying. Ain't no psycho-analyst, but I got an ear and time to kill. We're open all night, but no sleepin' in the booth. We got a covered porch out back if you need it, though, or there's the Joshua shelter off Sacramento."

Irma walked away to grab the coffee pot and refill her other customers' cups. Steve watched her go, then looked at the glorious piece of apple pie sitting before him. He scooped up the forkful gratefully, and he savored the pie, pausing only for the coffee.

It was the best slice he'd had in ages.

* * *

Steve took Irma up on the offer of the covered back porch sometime after he'd finished his pie. He was too tired to try and find the shelter she'd mentioned. It wasn't a great sleep, as he kept getting startled awake—by a frightened orange cat, sirens passing nearby, and other loud city noises. When the world turned a watery blue that said the sun was on its way up, he gave up.

He stood and stretched, easing the aches in his body from another uncomfortable night. His legs protested as soon as he stepped off the porch, but he didn't stop. His limbs warmed and loosened as he kept walking, and eventually the sun peered between the homes and apartment buildings to rouse the city and bring the heat of the day.

As he roamed, puzzling out his desperate money situation, he came up with a possible solution.

He retraced his steps through the streets from memory, back to where he'd stopped the kid with the coffee. Murray had said he ran a grocery three blocks down, so Steve headed in the direction the kid had come from. He hoped that the grocery was open and Murray would be in. _Maybe_ , just maybe, he could talk his way into some sort of job.

The rich smell of savory breakfast food danced around Steve as he walked, making his mouth water. Last evening's burger was a mere memory and his stomach was emptier than ever. He decided to push himself 'til supper, however, until he had a plan to get himself a meal.

He soon came upon Grover Grocery, with stands of fruit and vegetables on display just inside the large front window. Steve cast a longing look at them, and pushed open the door. A bell overhead jangled to announce his presence. Steve found Murray down one of the aisles, perched on stepstool, stacking cans on the top shelf.

"Excuse me," said Steve tentatively.

"Yes?" Murray looked over. "What can I d– hey! You're the fella who helped me out the other day." His paunchy face broke into an uneven grin.

"I am, yes. My name's Steve."

"Well, son! What can I do you for?"

"Sir, I was wondering…" Steve hesitated. He'd thought over twenty different ways to ask Murray for help and he still didn't know what to say. "Sir, I was wondering if you were hiring."

Murray shrugged. "No, sorry, son. I don't really have any open positions right now. You looking for you or someone else?"

"For me." Steve's heart sank and he tried not to let his disappointment show, attempting a smile. "Thanks anyways."

Murray's expression fell and he seemed to properly take Steve in at that moment, from his unshaven face to the state of his borrowed clothes. He cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"Look, uh, you _did_ help me out the other day," Murray said, caught somewhere between trying to make things better without putting himself in a bind. "And I could maybe use somebody to just clean up or...you know, unload trucks and whatever the other boys don't have time for. Won't be much to do, and I won't be able to pay much either, but I s'pose it's something."

"I'll take it," Steve said quickly.

"Well, all right then." He nervously smoothed his hand over his flyaway gray hair. "Steve, was it? Broom's in the back."

Murray was right; there wasn't a lot to do. Steve swept the store front to back meticulously, then turned around and did it again. He straightened shelves and helped Murray and his sons, the other two employees, unload the late delivery truck. He washed windows and looked for something else to keep himself occupied.

Around mid-afternoon, Murray told him to go take a break. But sitting on a bench a block away in the hot May sun just reminded Steve that he was still painfully hungry—something he'd managed to ignore while his hands had been busy. He was saving his five-dollar bill for supper, and Murray wouldn't pay him until the end of the week—a full three days away—so he had to make it last.

Steve wrenched himself up with a sigh and dragged himself back to the grocery store.

"I swear, this place has never been cleaner since the day it was built," laughed Murray as he closed up the evening. "You're somethin' else, Steve."

"Thank you," said Steve. He faced the door, already dreading trying to find somewhere to go. It must have shown on his face, because Murray piped up behind him,

"You got someplace to stay?"

 _No_ , he thought, but didn't want to voice it. Murray had already been generous enough. Steve pushed a hollow smile onto his lips.

"Yeah, of course."

Murray nodded, relieved. "Right. Well, see you Saturday, then." He returned his attention to the receipts he was counting.

"Saturday?" His heart dipped into his stomach. That was four long days away.

"Huh? Yeah, Saturday."

"Oh, I, um…I thought I'd be back tomorrow?"

"Look, Steve, you seem like a good guy and all, but if I had you in here every day, not only would there be nothing for you to do, but there'd be nothing for my boys to do either." Murray let out a great belly laugh. "If they weren't my boys, I'd fire them and hire you, but they're family, you know?"

Steve nodded and pasted on that empty smile again. "Yeah, of course. Thank you again, for everything."

"Don't mention it." Murray waved his hand at him. "We'll see you Saturday."

Steve held his expression until he was out the door and out of sight. Then he dropped his shoulders and walked under the streetlights, with the ambient city noises pulsing all around him in the late evening. His fingers curled around his precious five dollars buried in his pocket as his stomach gave a mighty roar. He needed something hearty and cheap and soon.

Steve found his way back to Sal's and chose the same booth as the day before. Irma came over with her thin lips not quite pulled into a smirk.

"So you're back," she said and slapped down a menu. "Know what you want?"

"In a minute," said Steve.

Irma walked away to deliver heaping plates of fries and gravy to a group of teenagers in the far corner. Steve averted his eyes as his stomach cramped insistently and instead he stared at the menu. When she came back, he ordered the steak soup and a water. Irma gave him a strange narrow-eyed look and shook her head.

"Damn this old head," she muttered. "You look so much like someone...but I can't for life of me place it." His pulse spiked, but she waved her hand at him with a huff and left to place his order.

Steve let out his breath in a rush. The last thing he needed was someone recognizing him as Captain America. _Maybe I shouldn't come back here after this_ , he wondered. That was twice now that she'd mentioned he looked familiar. He couldn't take any chances.

The food was delicious, and Steve forced himself to take his time—not only to savor his supper but to ease it into his aching stomach. Bite of carrot, bite of potato, bit of beef. He had several glasses of water to wash it down.

Irma took his sorry-looking fiver with no comment and returned with his change. Steve swallowed hard when he realized he hadn't accounted for a tip. He sat for a good half minute agonizing over what to do, when Irma came sweeping by, her arms full of other patron's dirty dishes.

"There better not be anything on that table except your empty cup, boy," she said and shot him not-quite-a-glare. It was the kind of look Bucky's mom used to give him when Steve tried to help her clean up after she explicitly told him not to.

Steve flushed. "Thank you."

Irma kept on walking, but he caught the hint of satisfied smile on her face when he left.

* * *

Another long chilly night, another blue morning.

Steve decided not to go back to the diner, in case Irma finally placed him. As the white noise of a city waking up surrounded him, Steve got to walking again, this time with a little bit of purpose. As he'd lain awake during the night, he'd come up with a plan of sorts. He needed to find a better way to spend his nights, he needed to figure out how to solve his hunger problem, and he needed to help Bruce somehow.

He squared his shoulders and pushed his tired feet one in front of the other. He found the library again, and lingered outside until it opened. Once he'd had a brief look around, he chose a pile of books as complex as the ones he'd tried before and started reading.

The petite librarian who'd helped him the day before stopped in surprise when she found him at one of the tables.

"Hello," Steve greeted. "Do you happen to have a pencil and some paper I could have?"

"Um, sure…" She gave him a worried look and walked away.

His cheeks grew hot with embarrassment—how bad did he look? Unshaven, unshowered, and wearing the same clothes she'd seen him in days earlier? It _had_ to be bad.

She returned and set the pencil and paper down, then hurried away. A few minutes later, a security guard sauntered past. He didn't say or do anything, just cast a look Steve's way, and took up residence far enough away that Steve could ignore him but close enough the guard could keep an eye on Steve. Steve just kept reading and taking notes. Though he now was self-conscious of his appearance, he didn't blame the librarian for thinking whatever she was thinking about him.

Soon, his stomach roared and twisted angrily enough that Steve couldn't concentrate any longer. He gathered up his books and brought them to the front desk. He tucked his notes and the pencil into his pocket. The librarian watched him warily.

"Thank you, ma'am," said Steve, with a warm smile and a polite head nod. He exited the library under the watchful eye of the security guard.

He made his next stop at a YMCA for shower. It did wonders for his spirits to scrub the city's grime off his body, even if putting the same grungy clothes on wasn't ideal. Steve raked his fingers through his wet hair, staring at his reflection and the growing beard with a grimace.

"Could be worse," he mumbled.

Desperately hungry, he wandered to the crummiest-looking coffee shop he could find, with dirt-cheap prices. He got himself a water and a couple of muffins, pocketing the last few coins. If something didn't change soon, he'd be officially out of luck. He forced himself to chew slowly but somehow finished feeling even hungrier than before.

He passed beautiful churches, old homes, new homes. A couple having an argument, a group of guys dancing on a street corner, people walking their dogs. He wound his way to denser and denser streets and passed another library. Steve considered going inside, but given the state he was in, with his five o'clock shadow morphing into a beard, and his very lived-in clothes, he didn't think it'd be a good idea anymore.

Settling on a bus bench for another break, Steve leaned back and watched the cars and people whizzing by. He pulled his pencil and meager notes from earlier out and began sketching on the back of the paper: a woman and her child, an interesting building, random shapes and people who flitted before his eyes. He sat by, a silent observer, recording little moments, and then erasing them to make room for more.

 _No effect on history—no trace. Catastrophic..._

It was once again achingly familiar—being on the outside looking in, just observing and drawing. He'd done it ever since he was a kid.

The sun drifted between the tall office buildings. He thought he'd been lonely before, wandering around 2012, trying to figure out how the hell he got there and deal with what he'd lost. This, in some ways, was worse.

At least once he'd been taken in by S.H.I.E.L.D. and become an Avenger, he'd had some place to be. And once he'd moved into the Tower with the others, he had a weird, ragtag sort of family that cared about him, and that made living day-to-day more bearable. It let him accept his losses and start to move forward. He missed them more than he would've ever expected.

Here, he had no one to reach out to, no place to stay, no one to talk to. Or rather, if he _did_ do any of those things, he could possibly completely screw up history. An ache in his chest that had nothing to do with his gnawing, empty stomach told him it might be worth it. Just to see them—the Commandos, Howard. Just to see _her._

Steve realized his hand had formed vague outlines of his team's faces, standing alongside a profile of Peggy. He blinked away the sudden sting in his eyes and erased them.

That night, Steve found the shelter Irma had directed him to. The volunteers were friendly and didn't pry past warm greetings and directing him to a bed. The place was noisy and crowded, and didn't stop being so through the night, but it warm and had a mat softer than the bench or Irma's porch—definitely better than a lot of the places he'd slept in the past. He managed to doze off for a few hours before the morning crowd came clambering through in search of breakfast.

Steve gratefully grabbed a tray and shovelled the eggs and bacon into his mouth so fast that one of the other men at the table stared in astonishment.

"Where's the fire, son?" he chuckled.

Steve swallowed and flushed, but the man just laughed and waved his hand at Steve.

"Just make sure you chew, huh? I don't know how to do the Heimlich."

Full for the moment, Steve once again ventured out into the busy, anonymous streets of Chicago. He spent two more days in the same manner, and misery started to snake into his bones despite his best efforts. He just had to keep busy until Saturday when he could go back to Murray's. He clung to the idea that Bruce would find him, would talk to him again, and bring him home.

 _Any day, any day now,_ he thought as he returned to another library to take more notes. Bruce hadn't exactly given Steve a mission, but nonetheless, it helped the time pass to treat his situation as such. _Find food. Eat. Find shelter. Sleep. Find something useful. Write it down._

The rest of his time was spent drawing on napkins and discarded cardboard, scribbling it out or throwing it away, and more walking. He even managed to get a new pencil from the librarian, who still looked at him warily but remained pleasant when he talked to her.

As he passed by a narrow alleyway, he heard shouting and paused. No one else seemed to notice the commotion, and Steve heard it again. He backtracked a few steps and peered down the darkened street. Several tall men had someone surrounded, and when that someone gave a terrified call for help, Steve's heart jumped to his throat. He veered into the alley.

One of the men flashed a knife over his head. "Shut it, you little shit! You stay out of this once and for all!" he barked. "You hear me? I'm gonna gut you!"

"Hey!" Steve called out.

A couple of the men looked up, scowling.

"Beat it, man," yelled one stocky guy. "This don't concern you."

Steve caught a glimpse of a kid, shoved against the wall by the largest of the group, and his pulse raced. It was the same boy who'd stolen Murray's coffee the other day.

 _What is he mixed up in now?_

The boy whimpered and his captors shushed him, thumping his head against the alley wall. Steve knew he wasn't leaving this alley without fighting these men. He curled his hands into fists.

"Actually, I think it does," he said calmly.

One of the burliest men gave Steve an angry, incredulous glare and stepped forward from the group. "Look man, you don't have any idea who you're messing with."

"Go ahead and tell me then," said Steve.

The guy snorted. "Don't be a hero, buddy—turn around, walk outta this alley right now, and we'll _let_ you."

"Not gonna happen," Steve growled.

"Just remember, you asked for this," the big guy snarled.

Steve narrowed his eyes. "Same to you."

The guy took a mighty swing. His buddies followed suit, rushing in to jump Steve. One goon hung back and kept the kid pinned against the wall. Steve dodged, lashed out, and spun. Someone's knife went flying, one goon's gun ended up in the dumpster, followed shortly by its owner.

Steve ducked to avoid a swing. He slammed his fist into another thug's gut then popped to his feet to clock yet another goon, sending him yelping and flopping into the dirt.

The guy holding the kid finally joined the fray with a wild howl, knife out. Steve slapped his weapon away and had him down along with the rest.

The whole thing was over in about nineteen seconds. The men lay sprawled in the dirt, in and out of the dumpster, moaning or unconscious. Steve took a staggering step and brushed off his hands, catching his breath. The kid stared and rubbed his throat where the goons had bruised him.

"How the hell'd you do that?" the boy asked.

"Practice," Steve said with a shrug.

He narrowed his eyes at Steve, his shock turning to suspicion. "Wait a minute—it's _you_ again. What's your problem? Are you following me now?"

"You're welcome?" Steve snapped, gesturing to the boy's attackers.

The boy shook his head and made to walk past Steve. "I had it handled."

"Clearly." Steve blocked him. "You're what? Twelve?"

"I'm almost fourteen," the kid barked.

"You didn't have it handled." Somewhere in the back of his memories, Bucky was saying the exact same thing to Steve.

"Whatever—you don't even know what's going on." The kid's voice was brittle instead of angry as he made to go past Steve. Steve snagged his upper arm and yanked him to a stop.

"Then tell me. Tell me what's going on." Steve stared the boy down, willing him to talk. Something was up—more than just being in the wrong place at the wrong time. "What did you do that's got six big guys like this cornering you in an alley in broad daylight?"

The kid clenched his jaw. "You won't help me. No one will. It's too big."

" _What_ is? Kid, just let me try."

The boy's anger came flooding back. "Get _off_ me, man!" He thrashed and kicked out, nailing Steve in the shin.

Steve hissed and didn't quite let go, but his grip loosened involuntarily and the boy tore out of it. Steve tried to grab him again and narrowly missed. The boy took off running down the alley. Steve followed, unwilling to give up.

The boy reached down and grabbed a handful of dirt, flinging it at Steve. Steve didn't get his hand up in time and took some in the eye. He faltered at the mouth of the alley, furiously brushing the dust out of his face.

"Hold it!" Steve hollered, squinting. "I can help you!"

"Go away!" the kid shouted. "I can do this on my own!"

Steve's vision cleared and his breath snagged in his chest. The kid stopped in the middle of the street but a black and brown car racing down the pavement _didn't_.

Someone cried out. Steve's feet hit asphalt. He didn't even remember moving, acting, thinking. The boy gasped and brakes shrieked. Steve's body collided with the kid's, sending him flying out of the way. And then metal hit bone, flesh hit glass, skull hit pavement, and Steve's world winked out.


	5. Chapter 5

_A/n: MY DUDES. I am finally surfacing after the most intense semester of school ever - short version: I don't know how I am alive (I won't take up space here; pm me if you want details) - and am_ finally _touching the fics which I have been physically unable to touch since August. :/ My hope is to spend the holidays catching up on 3 1/2 months of sleep, and get a few new chapters up for y'all, before I have to disappear again for semester 2. But HI. I'M ALIVE. And here's a new chapter - I'm so sorry you guys had to wait so long, but thank you from the bottom of my heart for your patience and especially to the ones who reached out with encouraging messages and comments (here and/or on AO3). Thank you, you mean everything to me. \o/_

* * *

 **[ CLINT ]**

 _"To enter the past is like poking a baseball bat into a spiderweb: it can't be done subtly or delicately."_ — _Robert Silverberg, Needle In A Timestack_

* * *

"Son, are you an _actual_ goddamn idiot?"

So this was Colonel Chester Phillips. Clint kind of liked him, despite the tongue-lashing he was getting. There was something about the look in his eyes and the worn lines of his face that made Clint want to trust him—and needle him. He looked as gruff and practical in person as he did in his file.

"Okay," Clint sighed. "This looks bad…"

"You decided to pick a fight with that woman, surrounded by a posse of men—"

"I didn't pick a fight."

"Then you come back for more and you tick off a guy twice your height and weight—"

"Hey, I'm not _that_ small."

"Spouting some goddamn nonsense amount time-travel and Captain Steve Rogers."

Clint sighed. "It's not nonsense." He thought it prudent not to mention he'd heard his name in the air spoken by no one earlier—he was already coming off crazy enough as it was.

"Son, are you going to contradict _every_ word I say?"

Clint bit back a sarcastic reply, which would get him nowhere, and opted to—for once—keep his mouth shut.

Phillips eyed him.

The silence stretched for several minutes as the pair sized each other up. Clint shifted in his seat. His wrists itched where the handcuffs encircled them behind his back. He'd withstood plenty of interrogations before, so this was nothing new for him.

Well, excepting the whole "displaced in time" thing.

"Is it narcotics, son?" Phillips watched him shrewdly.

Clint sighed through his nose. "Do I _look_ high to you? No, it's not drugs."

"Maybe not, but frankly, I can't drum up another explanation for why you're sticking to such a goddamn crackpot story," said Phillips. "You seem like a decent fella who is completely off his nut. I'm just tryin' to suss out why. Does your family have a history of mental illness?"

"No."

"Did you escape from a mental institution?"

"No."

"Got yourself a day pass?"

" _No._ " Clint bit out and heaved another sigh.

This was going nowhere fast. He needed to figure out how to get these people to trust him and more importantly, to help him. What if roles were reversed? What if someone was trying to convince _him_ they were from the future? What would it take for him to believe them? He could maybe think of something to say to Peggy about Steve, but she was out of sight—he had to try to work with Phillips for the time being.

"Look, you work for S.H.I.E.L.D. now—or the S.S.R. or whatever—and you've seen some serious shit, right?"

"Watch your language, son," Phillips warned.

"Sorry. But I mean, Red Skull— _that_ was insane. You've personally witnessed some pretty out there stuff, so why is it so impossible to believe what I'm telling you right now?"

Phillips inclined his head. "Because, crazy though the things I've seen may be, I've encountered _nothing_ that would allow my sense of logic to be so turned around for me to start believing in goddamn time travel. Serums, fine. But time travel? That is absolute science-fiction mumbo-jumbo."

"Science fiction just means you haven't experienced that technology yet," Clint retorted. He didn't think adding that he'd personally fought aliens would help his case for not being crazy.

The Colonel stood with a sigh, shoving his chair back. "Son, I'm gonna fix myself a coffee. You sit here and think about telling me what's really going on. You're exhausting me."

"Aw, come _on_ …" Clint protested, but the older man ignored him, crossing the floor and exiting the interrogation room. Clint dropped his head to the tabletop, groaning.

He thought about old S.H.I.E.L.D. files he'd read. Were there some missions he could talk about? Ones that had happened by this point in history that were classified? Surely that would at least get them to stop dismissing him as a patient from a mental ward.

Or maybe missions that hadn't happened yet? Maybe he could give them some sort of tip, prove he had some sort of foreknowledge of events…

With a growl of frustration, he lifted his head and glared at the one-way glass. "Hey, I _am_ telling the truth, here! I don't know what you need to hear, but just take a second to consider that I—"

The reflection on the glass changed, no longer showing him and the otherwise empty interrogation room, but instead Bruce, his forehead creased with worry. The archer and the physicist simultaneously exclaimed each other's name in surprise.

"Holy crap, how—?" Clint began, then realized it'd been _Bruce's_ voice earlier coming from nowhere. _Then_ realized he didn't care how any of this was happening—he was just thrilled that it was at all.

"Bruce, you _gotta_ get me out of here."

* * *

 **[ PEGGY ]**

* * *

"Well, I think he's nuts," said Phillips with a hefty sigh. He closed the door behind him and stood at Peggy's elbow. "You?"

Peggy gave a noncommittal one-shoulder shrug. "My jury's out."

She didn't want to add that she'd had an inexplicable feeling to trust him. It made no sense to her and would make even less sense to the Colonel. Regardless, she was determined to ignore the feeling in favor of something concrete.

She turned her attention back to Barton on the other side of the one-way glass. He had his face pressed to the table.

"He certainly _sounds_ bonkers," she said. "But he also seems to honestly believe what he's saying."

Phillips grunted. "Most wackjobs do. Look at Hydra."

Peggy hummed in agreement. "What do we do with him, then? Lock him up, let him out to roam?"

"Hey," Barton shouted at them, though he couldn't see them. "I _am_ telling the truth, here! I don't know what you need to hear, but just take a second to consider that I—" He broke off, looking shocked.

Peggy raised her eyebrow. It was a peculiar reaction, but more peculiar was what happened next.

"Bruce! Holy crap, how—?" said Barton, then he took in a sharp, hasty breath. "Bruce, you _gotta_ get me out of here."

Phillips and Peggy exchanged confused glances.

 _Bruce who?_ Peggy wondered. Maybe he _was_ out of his mind after all.

"Well, I figured we didn't have time for pleasantries," said Barton. He added with a wince, "So, I kind of got arrested?" There was a short pause and Barton replied to some unknown question, "Uh, like five hours?"

It was like eavesdropping on a phone conversation where they could only hear one side. The longer it went on, the more Peggy rather suspected hearing the other side wouldn't have helped it make much more sense.

"Bruce, what the hell happened?" Barton continued. "Where are you? Or should I say when?"

"Who the hell is he talking to?" Phillips mumbled, narrowing his eyes at their captive.

"I'm in the '40s—September '46 to be exact," stated Barton. "Wait, _again?_ You lost me before?"

The next pause was a much longer one. Peggy leaned closer to the glass, studying Barton's expression. He listened carefully to a voice only he could hear and he watched something on the glass that only he could see. He frowned a little and then his shoulders sagged in defeat.

"You mean make sure I don't accidentally change the course of history or anything?" His tone was resigned. Another break in the conversation, then Barton sighed. "Are you giving this speech to all the kids, or just me?"

Could he just be an exceptional actor? Peggy didn't think so—there was something about him that was, as she'd said to Phillips, quite genuine. It was puzzling. More so, it was troubling—suppose he _was_ telling the truth? That he was from the future, and knew Steve, and required help returning to his very own time? She was afraid to wrap her head around the implications of it all. Afraid to hope it could be true.

"Yeah, so, about that. Um, I sort of...lost my quiver? Well, I left it behind." He grimaced. "Yeah, yeah, I know. I didn't—no, I got it. Have you gotten a hold of anyone else? Bruce? Hey—Bruce?" Barton raised his voice. "I think you're losing me—hey! If you get Steve, tell him I'm with Peggy! _Bruce?_ " He broke off and swore repeatedly under his breath. Barton moaned and pressed his face back down to the table.

Phillips crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head. "Now what in the hell are we supposed to make of _that_?"

"Sir, what if…" Peggy felt rather daft herself even _thinking_ about suggesting what she was about to suggest, but she took a breath and did it anyways. "What if he's not, in fact, crazy or lying?" Her pulse spiked at the mere possibility. A traveler from the future? One who _knew_ Steve?

Phillips frowned. "It's bullshit—what he's trying to tell us is nonsense. I don't buy it. I can't."

"So are most of the cases we deal with on a day to day basis," she tactfully reminded him. "This is the entire purpose behind our founding S.H.I.E.L.D.—to take on the bizarre things that even the S.S.R. doesn't go after. We live in an impossible world."

She glanced at Barton, his face still pressed against the table.

"Perhaps it's not so impossible to imagine that…what Agent Barton described, in fact, truly happened. Just consider what happened with Schmidt and the Tesseract—that's only the tip of our unique little iceberg."

Phillips's features softened, and a note of sorrow and sympathy crept into his eyes. She wanted to turn away—she hated that look and was damn tired of seeing it—but forced herself to hold his gaze and to stomach the inevitable Steve-related words she knew were coming.

"I understand you want to hold on to any little thread of hope here, Carter," he said. His sad tone grated against her skin. "But he's gone. And he's not…" He sighed. "He's gone. No matter what Howard may tell you—believing this nutjob won't bring him back, either."

Phillips was a friend as well as a colleague and her former superior, and he had lost Steve same as she had. While Howard steadfastly refused to believe Steve was gone forever and had continued the search, Phillips had grieved and accepted the loss and moved on—he had lost a lot of soldiers before and since, no matter how much he cared about them.

For all the respect he normally had for her, whenever the subject of Captain Rogers came up, Phillips still had the tendency to treat Peggy like she was made of glass. As if she might shatter if someone mentioned him a certain way.

As if she had never lost those she cared about before.

She had loved Steve, yes. Losing him had broken her heart, yes. But that had been over a year ago, and she could handle talking about it. Whether it was with Phillips, who believed Steve was gone forever, or with Howard, who believed he was still out there to be saved. She frankly was quite undecided on the matter and had a foot in both camps.

"And this loon, whoever he is," Phillips continued somberly. "Probably knows about you from the reels about Captain Rogers. Knows you're connected. Latched on to it, and now he's using it."

Peggy planted her hand on her hip, trying not to get frustrated with the Colonel's logic. "To what end, though? Merely to be aggravating? Infiltration? To spy on this newly formed and completely secret branch of the S.S.R. that will be S.H.I.E.L.D.? How could he possibly know about it?"

Before Phillips formed an adequate reply, Peggy ploughed on.

"If that is his goal and he _is_ a spy, don't you think he would have gone about it in a much more clever way?" She glanced over her shoulder at Barton. "Getting into a minor altercation in public and claiming to be a refugee from the future hardly seems like a brilliant strategy."

"You brought him here, didn't you?" countered Phillips.

Her heart sank a little. Daft as it was, if being brought here was his plan, it'd worked like a charm. Peggy pressed her lips together and considered their captive. Maybe she really was pinning impossible hopes on him.

"What do you suggest, then?" she said at last.

Phillips waved his hand at the glass. "Show's over. Let him loose."

"Suppose he's dangerous?" said Peggy. "Shouldn't we at least assess whether or not his...delusions are a threat, if he intends anyone any harm, or…"

"I think the only one his delusions are a danger to...is you," he told her, not unkindly.

Peggy faced the interrogation room again as Barton let out another pitiful moan. _If he really is from the future, why isn't Steve here too?_ She had half a mind to ask him, but the longer she stood there, the more Phillips's logic got to her. There was no point debating semantics with an insane person.

"Very well." Peggy nodded curtly. She tore her eyes away from their prisoner. "I'll have someone drop him off where we found him."

"It's for the best, Carter."

She turned her back on him to go give Barton the news. Surely it _was_ for the best, but Peggy couldn't shake the feeling that Phillips was wrong.

* * *

 **[ CLINT ]**

* * *

Clint ground his teeth together to hold back the flood of curses he wanted to lose at the S.S.R. driving away. Why the hell hadn't he used his damn brain and said something useful to Peggy in the beginning?

He veered around a group of cackling drunks tumbling out of a bar. They ignored him, lost in their merriment. The chilly night air sent a wave of goosebumps over his arms and he wished he had a coat.

It'd taken a bit to get his bearings after Dugan had dropped him off. Everything looked different at night—and in 1946—that he'd walked a number of blocks, brooding and angry with himself, before he realized he'd lost track of what direction he'd headed. He paid attention to street signs after that and made his way to Central Park. There, he could lie low for the rest of the night until he figured out how to go back to where he landed and get his quiver.

Clint hopped off the curb and cut across the street, dodging a speeding taxi. _Maybe I can still find Howard_. That was probably definitely messing with history, but Howard could talk science to Bruce and surely be helpful in getting Clint back home. The less time he had to spend in the past trying not to crush a butterfly and cause the apocalypse or something, the better.

Tomorrow, he decided, he'd start researching. Steal some period-appropriate clothes and maybe a wallet or two. He'd get his quiver from the shack, per Bruce's _don't leave future stuff lying around or else_ lecture. Then, if he could track Howard down, maybe he'd be able to convince him of his truthfulness.

And he'd have to be _way_ more careful than he'd been with Peggy, damn it.

The park was closed but Clint didn't hesitate, just kept walking. Wasn't his first time being there after hours and he doubted it'd be his last. He found a secluded spot, shielded from the network of pathways and Clint hunkered down under a leafy green bush to sleep.

Clint exhaled long and slow, tucking his arms around himself. _Wherever you guys are,_ _I hope things are going better for you._


	6. Chapter 6

_A/n: I got some writing in over the holidays! And I keep making promises about when new chapters will be up and I always fail that, so I will stop promising things. XD Semester 2 has begun, and I have a moment to breathe, so here's a new chapter! Major thanks to the best beta in the land, stars_inthe_sky._

 _Also: yes, Steve swears (fight me). And if you have_ eagle _eyes, the clues are coming for why this kid Steve met looks so familiar... ;)  
_

* * *

 **[ STEVE ]**

 _"_ _Then I saw it: I saw a mom who would die for her son, a man who would kill for his wife, a boy, angry and alone, laid out in front of him the bad path. I saw it, and the path was a circle, round and round. So I changed it."_ — _Joe, Looper_

* * *

The world rearranged itself slowly around him, piece by piece.

A constant murmur of voices and footsteps, the hushed whirring of machines. Steve was laying down. Everything hurt. The cloying smell of antiseptic and stale air surrounded him. Too much light focused on a blank, paneled ceiling—the ceiling of a hospital, he realized.

Steve blinked and sucked in a deep breath, stopping when his chest and ribs protested.

"Ow, _shit_."

A pale blue blanket covered his body. His hands were bruised and scraped, and his left wrist was wrapped with gauze and a tensor bandage. Touching his hand to his ribs, wrapped with bandages under the blanket, Steve noticed a curtain separating him from viewing the rest of the room. He heard swift footsteps, murmured voices, the noise of rolling beds and tools and machines—the soundtrack to a busy emergency room.

He vaguely remembered colliding with the car and… _the boy_. Steve spotted his pants draped over a chair beside the bed. His shirt was nowhere to be found—probably unwearable after the accident.

He eased himself to a sitting position, hissing and biting back a hundred colorful words. Every move sent aching, shooting pain ripping through his torso. His head spun and he stopped to breathe, letting the world right itself.

The curtains yanked back and a lanky woman with her red hair tugged up in a bun strode forward.

"Hello there! You're awake," she said briskly. She glanced at his chart and back up at him, her eyes going wide with surprise. "Wow, your…your face is already starting to…"

"I'm a really fast healer," he said quickly. He wondered how bad he'd looked when he'd come in—how he looked now.

Steve caught a glimpse of the ER behind the nurse—full beds, more curtains, stretchers and nurses, bustling activity—before she rearranged the curtain, cutting off his view.

"No kidding…" she mumbled in awe. She cleared her throat, regaining her brisk tone. "Do you know where you are, sir?"

"Ninety-seventies Chicago," Steve answered grimly. He wished she'd correct him. _No, sir, you took a hit to the head. It's 2012, New York. I already called the rest of the Avengers_.

She didn't.

"That's right," she said, her lips quirking up a little. "Cook County Hospital, Friday, May 20, 1977. Do you remember what happened?"

He nodded. "I got hit by a car." He gingerly touched his fingers to the back of his head, which was throbbing and sore, but whole, at least.

"Bingo." She jotted some notes down on the chart in her hand.

"How long was I out?"

"A few hours. Sprained wrist, couple cracked ribs, plenty of bruising and scrapes, and then six stitches on your forehead. Few other nicks and bumps." She tapped her own face with her pen to indicate the other cuts he sported. "Though…most of them are already healing...at a phenomenal rate…" She stared at him and gave her head a shake. "Can you tell me your name?"

"My name?"

"Yeah—you came in with no ID. Is there someone we can call for you?"

"It's Steve." He swallowed. "And...no. No one."

Her expression softened. "Right. Well, you wanna tell me why you were standing in the middle of a busy street, Steve?"

"What happened to the kid?"

"Kid?" said the nurse. "Don't know. The paramedics said there was another person on site with a few scrapes, but he was gone before they could treat him or get a statement."

"So he was okay?"

"I really don't know, sorry," she said. "Do you know him?"

"No," he answered honestly.

 _But what about the men in the alley?_ Had they quietly gone on their way? Chased after the boy? Steve had to find the kid, make sure he was safe. And find out what the hell was going on. Someone that young shouldn't have any reason to have been threatened by six thugs.

As soon as he attempted to stand, the nurse rushed to his side, reaching out to settle him back down.

"Whoa there, tiger. Not so fast." She gently pushed on his shoulder until he was sitting again. "Now that you're awake, we'll need to get the doctor to look at you. He'll clear you to leave if he thinks you're good enough to go."

A ripple of panic went through Steve. Being cleared to leave meant getting stuck with a bill for his treatment. Money he absolutely did _not_ have. Not to mention, he _had_ to find the kid—the sooner, the better, lest those goons find him first. He had no idea how he was going to do that, but he'd figure that part out later.

He didn't want the nurse to sense he'd flee, however—she might put someone on him to make sure he didn't bolt. So Steve groaned, nodded, and laid back down.

"There we go," she said softly. "We'll take good care of you, Steve, don't you worry." She smiled warmly at him and pulled his blankets up over his chest.

"Thank you," he said, and meant it.

The stitches on his forehead itched and his ribs still screamed, but he knew he'd be much worse off without her and the other staff's care. He already felt guilty about skipping out, but as far as he could tell, there wasn't really anything he could do about it. He simply couldn't stay.

His chance came not ten minutes later. The nurse left him alone, and Steve hurried to get dressed despite his injuries. He tucked the hospital gown into his pants with a grimace—without a shirt, it'd have to do until he could get another one. Then, a huge commotion picked up outside his curtain—sirens and yells and storming footsteps. Steve wobbled over and took a peek; half a dozen stretchers flowed into the ER. The paramedics shouted over the din about gunshot wounds and a multi-vehicle car accident, and the whole place flew into action.

Steve edged away from his bed into the open, but no one paid him any mind. He walked straight for the exit, only limping a little from his sore hip, and stumbled outside. He dodged another wave of paramedics and put some distance between himself and the ER.

The warm late-afternoon sun splashed over him and he squinted at the brightness. Nearby was a patch of grass and trees, and sitting cross-legged in the shade reading a comic book, was the kid Steve had saved.

"Hey," said Steve sharply.

The kid looked up. "Hey," he said mildly. "You're not dead." He climbed to his feet and tucked the comic book into his back pocket.

Steve ambled over, holding his ribs which jarred and ached with every step. He knew they'd heal faster than a normal person's would, but couldn't help wishing they'd heal _instantly_.

"What," Steve said, trying to breath without making his ribs move. "You wait around all day just to say that?"

The kid ducked his head guiltily. "Thanks for saving my life," he mumbled.

Steve braced his hand against the tree to keep himself upright as his head swam. "You gonna tell me what's going on now?"

"You...you don't look so good…"

"Yeah, that'd be because I _got hit by a car_ ," Steve bit out. He closed his eyes and took a few, slow, shallow breaths. It hurt, but the pain eased as he stayed still. He was in no mood to do this dance, _any_ dance, with the kid right now.

"Did you leave before they let you?" asked the boy.

Steve opened his eyes. "Obviously."

The kid nodded knowingly. "Okay. C'mon. I know a good place we can go." He gestured Steve to follow. "C' _mon_ , before somebody starts looking for you."

Steve bobbed his head a little and eased out another slow breath. He really was in no shape to leave, and he probably _really_ should have stayed horizontal in that hospital bed. But instead, he followed the kid down the sidewalk.

"D'you have somewhere you can get some clothes?" the boy asked.

"You have a name?" Steve shot back.

The kid rolled his eyes. "It's Michael."

"Last name?" Steve pressed, thankful he'd finally gotten _something_ out of the boy.

"Rogers," he said readily.

Steve chuckled. "Well, how 'bout that. Me too."

"Yeah, right."

Steve grunted, too sore and tired to bother arguing.

"So, do you have clothes, or what?" Michael tried again. He cast a dubious look over Steve. "You're a little conspicuous in the hospital shirt."

"This is all I got."

Michael's hard expression eased. "Are you homeless?"

"Short answer?" Steve replied. "Yeah. You?"

He shrugged. "Short answer? Yeah."

They took frequent breaks whenever Steve leaned against a wall to fight off a dizzy spell. He didn't have the energy to keep the talk up, so he fell quiet and Michael followed suit, only speaking up to offer directions as they walked. Eventually, Steve began to recognize where they were, and he couldn't help letting out a surprised chuckle when the kid turned a corner and crossed the street towards Sal's All-American Diner.

"What?" said the boy.

"I've actually been here before." _So much for not coming back._

"You know Sal and Irma?"

"I've met Irma." Steve nodded. "She gave me a slice of pie."

Michael smiled, genuine and warm. "Yeah, she's good people." He pushed open the diner's door.

Steve trudged in behind him, looking forward to sitting down and not moving for a while.

"Hey Irma," greeted Michael.

Irma lazily held her hand up in a wave, but did a shocked double take when she saw Steve. "Michael! What on God's green earth—"

"Everything's okay," Michael promised.

Steve grimaced and offered her a sheepish smile. Irma stared, then waved for them to sit down. Steve followed Michael's lead; he cracked another smile when Michael chose the far booth Steve had sat in both times.

Michael flopped into the booth with a huff. Steve sat down gingerly, holding back as much as he could from making any pained hisses and moans. His face grew warm with effort and he finally exhaled shakily, settling against the old vinyl as the pain subsided.

"You look like shit," Michael remarked softly. "What happened to you?"

Steve shook his head. "You mean aside from the _car_ thing?"

Michael colored and looked away.

Steve was about to pry about the thugs, when Irma bustled over.

"What the hell happened?" she asked urgently, her tone low enough that the other patrons couldn't hear her. She raked her eyes over Steve then glared at Michael. "Did you get him mixed up in this Underwood business?"

"No!" Michael said defensively.

"What Underwood business?" said Steve.

"I told you to _stop_ ," Irma continued, fierce worry creasing her forehead. "Go back home to your family, wherever they are, and stop worrying about this."

"That's not going to happen." Michael crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm not letting this go—not until it's over. Henry deserves—"

"Justice, yes, which is why you need to give this to _the police_."

"I did," Michael snapped. "They said it was suicide and it wasn't—I _know_ it wasn't."

Irma frowned and shook her head. She finally properly looked at Steve, taking in his bruised features, hospital gown, and ever-growing beard and hair.

"And what happened to _you_ since I last saw you? You look like a caveman who got into a fight and lost."

"He got hit by a car, uh, instead of me," Michael admitted before Steve had the chance to reply.

Irma's eyes went wide and swung back to Michael. " _Hit by a car?_ " she growled.

Michael flushed bright red and he slid down in his seat under Irma's withering glare. "He doesn't have any clothes," he mumbled. "I thought you could help."

She straightened and pressed her lips together, like she _very_ much wanted to tell off Michael, but couldn't, not with half a dozen tables bearing customers. And possibly because the language she wanted was not exactly suited for a thirteen-year-old's ears.

"Wait here," she snapped. The fire in her eyes didn't abate as she stormed away to tend to the other patrons, then she disappeared into the back room.

Michael crouched in the booth, his face burning. Steve was desperate to pry about what he'd heard, but held his tongue—the kid looked like he'd just shut him out if he tried right now. Besides, Michael wasn't going anywhere, if his reaction to Irma was anything to go by.

Irma came back with a stuffed plastic bag. She set it on the table between them and faced Steve.

"These are my son's," she said. "I was gonna drop them by Goodwill after my shift. They oughta fit you—he had big arms, too. Bathroom's in the back..."

"Steve," he supplied. "And, thank you." He smiled gratefully and Irma softened a little. She shot another scowl at Michael and left to refill the coffee pot at the main counter.

Steve worked himself out of the booth and hobbled to the bathroom. Inside the bag, he found a pair of brown polyester pants, a long-sleeved striped shirt, a honey colored sport jacket, a bottle of aspirin, and an old shaving kit. He shed his rank sweat pants and the paper-thin hospital gown and looked himself over in the mirror.

His ribs were wrapped with bandages and medical tape, and a rainbow of bruises covered his hip, chest, arms, and face. Steve rubbed his hand over the thick beard he'd grown in the six days he'd been stranded here. He washed his face and shaved, then downed four or five aspirin, and put on the borrowed clothes with a slow, careful sigh of relief. He felt about a hundred times better and let out another long, slow breath that didn't make his ribs protest too much.

When Steve rejoined Michael at the table, Irma brought out two burgers, each plate piled high with fries.

"Oh, I didn't—" he started.

"This is for making sure his sorry ass wasn't killed today," Irma said sternly.

Steve bit back a laugh, knowing it'd do him no good to argue. His stomach growled loudly, anyway, and he eased into the booth. A fresh wave of aches stabbed through him, though they were blessedly dulled now that he had some painkillers in him. He and Michael scarfed down their food, too hungry and tired to talk. Irma brought them dessert—apple pie for Steve, vanilla ice cream for Michael—and finally when their plates were gone and the diner mostly empty, Irma took a break and sat down beside Michael.

"So, you gonna tell him, or should I?" she muttered to Michael.

Michael shrugged, avoiding both her and Steve's gazes.

Irma sighed through her nose and looked to Steve. "Figured since you got yourself hurt on his account, at least you oughta know why."

"Does this have to do with the men who cornered him in the alley today?" asked Steve.

Irma shot a shocked glare at Michael, who nodded sullenly.

"They work for Charles Underwood," Michael said quietly.

"He's a big deal in this city—rich developer, owns all kinds of real estate." Irma leaned forward and lowered her voice even more. "He's a seedy as seedy can be—has his fingers in all sorts of illegal pies, all the while keeping his public face clean."

"Can't the police do something about him?" Steve asked.

Irma shrugged. "They've tried. For years. No one can nail him to the wall. He's too well-connected. Nothing ever goes to trial, witnesses and evidence go missing, that sort of thing."

Steve's stomach turned over uneasily.

Irma turned to Michael. "You want to tell the next part?" she said gently. "He was your friend, kiddo."

Michael didn't move for a second, staring a hole through the speckled table top. Finally he sucked in a deep breath and spoke.

"His name was Henry. He was the janitor at my school a few years ago, and then part time at Underwood after that. We both like... _liked_ comic books—Henry saw me reading some once and we got talking. He was a really good guy."

He toyed with the salt shaker and shook his head sadly.

"He was young, too—maybe twenty- or thirty-something. It was like finally having a brother, and I could tell him anything." His voice grew softer. "After he quit at the school, we used to go for shakes every Saturday before his shift started at Underwood. He'd drive me home after Little League practice on the days when Mom worked late and he'd stay for supper."

He shoved the shaker away.

"One day, he was acting really weird and on edge," Michael went on. "He didn't want to tell me what was wrong, but I wouldn't leave him alone. He said he was worried about some friend of his, who'd accidentally seen something really illegal and didn't know what to do about it."

"It wasn't a friend, was it?" Steve asked.

Michael shook his head and grabbed the salt shaker again. "I told him his 'friend' should go to the police, and Henry got even more antsy, saying he couldn't, and then he left—I didn't see him again."

Irma took up the story. "Henry went missing for a week and turned up dead in his apartment. The police said it was suicide."

"But it wasn't," Michael insisted. "I _know_ it was Underwood. I think Henry found out that Underwood's smuggling drugs into the city, and Underwood had him killed to keep him quiet about it. Except the police said there was no evidence of that, no evidence of foul play, nothing. Henry wouldn't commit suicide—he was saving up money to go back to school!"

"They wrote Henry off as a man with problems," Irma added sadly. "And Underwood remains untouchable and unconnected to yet another murder."

"And he continues to traffic drugs into the city," finished Steve grimly.

Silence descended as Steve processed Michael's story. Irma left to tend to some new customers and Michael idly spun the salt shaker, not looking at Steve.

"So you're trying to take Underwood down?" Steve finally said. "By yourself?"

Michael's cheeks colored but he nodded. "My family wouldn't help me—we fought for weeks about it, until I left. I've been living at a friend's house for a few months since—dodging cops and figuring this whole thing out. They don't know where I am."

Steve stared. "You're choosing to have no contact with your family, who're probably worried sick—"

"I'm not letting Underwood win again!" Michael slammed the salt on the table. "I'm not letting him get away with killing Henry."

"I didn't mean…"

"Whatever you're going to say, Steve, I promise you, someone else has already said it," Michael bit out. "Only thirteen, shouldn't be doing this alone, at all, leave it to the police, go home kid, you can't do anything about it…"

"Yeah," said Steve. "Pretty much all that."

"He's smuggling _cocaine_ into _our_ neighborhoods, Steve."

"I hear that, but you gotta realize how insane this is. You're a kid, trying to topple some giant businessman and his crime empire."

Michael crossed his arms over his chest. "That's why he's not going to see me coming."

Steve sighed. He wanted badly to talk Michael out of this and send him home. He could only imagine the kind of stress his family was going through knowing Michael was roaming the streets and nearly dying in his pursuit of justice. Or maybe they didn't know at all, and Steve couldn't say which was worse.

But the stubborn set of Michael's jaw and the hardness in his eyes told Steve all he needed to know. Michael meant it when he said he wasn't going to let this go. Which meant either succeed or die trying. Steve frowned, knowing well before he formed the words that he was going to help. Hell, he felt like he'd known it from the minute Michael had smashed into him with the coffee.

Besides, Steve had never been able to walk away from bullies either.

"I'll help you," he said. Michael blinked in surprise. "On one condition: when this is over, you go home to your family. You move on. You find a way to fix these kinds of situations—without doing it like this."

"Are you serious?" said Michael. "You'll really help?"

"Promise me," Steve pressed, staring Michael down. "Become a police officer or an FBI agent or a judge or whatever it takes, but not this...not out on your own, with no support, no lifelines, no family. You hear me? No more abandoning the people who care about you and trying to do all by yourself, ever."

He swore he could hear the echo of Bucky in his voice, at that moment, telling Steve that he didn't have to get by on his own. Bucky would probably find it ironic that Steve was giving the same advice to someone else.

"You're really big on promises, aren't you?" Michael mumbled.

"Yep."

Michael looked at the table and thought for a long moment before he met Steve's eyes and nodded. "Okay."

Steve held out his hand, wincing as his ribs protested. "Promise me," he repeated. "You promise me, and you promise Irma, and your family, and anyone else who cares about you."

Michael swallowed and shook Steve's hand. "I promise," he said somberly.

"Good." Steve relaxed into the booth. "Now tell me everything you know so far."

* * *

 _A/n: So they used to wrap broken ribs, but they stopped doing that in later years because it forced you to breathe shallowly and therefore put you at risk of getting pneumonia. I couldn't really find an exact date for when they stopped doing this, but I figured they likely were still doing it in the 70s. :)_

 _Secondly: I assume Steve can still take regular painkillers, but he has to take at least double the dose twice as often, if not more, to be effective because of his hyper-metabolism._


End file.
